


Roadside Assistance

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Sam can't sleep after 5.19.  Dean tries a radical solution to the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roadside Assistance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/profile)[ **blindfold_spn**](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/)  for the following prompt: "Sam is more whiny than usual because he can't sleep. Dean finally gets so pissed he pulls over to the side of the road and fucks him up against the Impala-- traffic driving by and everything. Dean makes Sam come several times-- that should make Sam sleep."  I think it may have come out schmoopier than the prompter intended, but this is me, right?  At least till someone locks me in the panic room to sweat the schmoop out.

  
 “We should try to hack into the CDC,” says Sam, “see if we can find any patterns, weird epidemics that aren’t making the newspapers.”

Dean takes his eyes off the road to glance at Sam. It’s just past dark, headlights being turned on, masses of cloud against a greenish Midwestern sky. Strange motel, slaughtered pantheon, and dead archangel are fifteen hours behind them. When Sam closes his eyes, he still sees Lucifer’s face.

“You said that already,” says Dean. Dean’s words, that is. His tone adds, _three times_.

“We should call Bobby, see if he can get started,” Sam insists, “Though I don’t know how we’re going to trace Death. People dying, not exactly a clue.” His brain is running in circles, trying out ways to track down two horsemen and two rings. Somewhere behind all the activity is a small voice, a chilly, dark corner of his mind telling him that the devil’s not going to just saunter into the cage. And that they only have one thing Lucifer wants. If he thinks enough about passwords and epidemics he won’t have to listen to it.

“We’ll be at Bobby’s tomorrow, that’s soon enough,” says Dean, “There’s a diner off the next exit, you want to eat?”

“We could maybe stop at a Starbucks, they usually have wireless,” says Sam. “And coffee,” he adds. His last caffeine fix is wearing off and the lights of the oncoming cars are beginning to blur. Dean sighs.

“Look, Sam,” he says, “You were exhausted last night. Then last night happened. I think we should put Bobby off for a day. Find a guaranteed god-free motel, eat a proper dinner, get you twelve hours of sleep.”

“Last night happened to you, too,” Sam points out, “I’m fine.”

“When you drove, I slept,” Dean retorts. “Now I’m driving, you’re twitching.”

“Don’t know how you expect me to sleep in a car made for dwarves,” Sam answers, and normally that would have Dean up in arms, but now he just says, “Hence the motel, Genius.” He doesn’t mention that Sam has been sleeping fine folded into shotgun since long past his final growth spurt. Except when he’s been waking up in shotgun from screaming nightmares.

“I don’t want to stop for the night, I don’t want to go to the diner, I don’t want to nap folded up like an accordion,” snaps Sam. “What’s wrong with doing a little planning so the drive’s not wasted time?”

“You’re not planning, you’re freaking. And whining. If you’d get some fucking sleep I might not need to kill you in it.”

“Fine,” says Sam. He leans against the window. Dean settles back a bit, hands relaxing on the wheel. “I won’t fall asleep, you know,” Sam adds.

“Try, Sam,” says Dean with exaggerated patience, “Count sheep, hum a lullaby, jerk off. Quietly. Just stop twitching and whining. And thinking.”

“Fine,” says Sam again. He closes his eyes. Lucifer, scabbed and smug, swims out of the darkness. He opens his eyes again. “We should . . .” he begins. Then he breaks off as Dean twists the wheel, pulls onto the shoulder, and comes to a stop with a squeal of brakes. Dean switches off the engine. “Get out of the car, Sam,” he says.

“What?” says Sam. Dean’s kicking him out by I-65? For thinking? “Out,” says Dean again. Sam obeys. His heart is hammering with residual fear, though he knows it’s unreasonable. Part of him still expects Dean to take off again, that he’ll be left by the roadside watching the Impala’s tail-lights disappear.

But apparently that’s not what’s happening now. Dean comes around the car to Sam’s side and pokes a finger at Sam’s chest. “Take off your pants,” he says.

Sam gapes at him “What?” It seems to be his line of choice these days. “Take your pants off,” Dean repeats patiently, “I’m going to blow you. I’m going to blow you and you’re going to have an orgasm and then you’re going to stop thinking and go the fuck to sleep.”

“Dean, we’re parked on the shoulder of the Interstate. There’s nothing soporific about exhibitionist Interstate sex.”

“They can’t see us over the car,” says Dean, “Come on, Sammy. This is happening, whether you like it or not.” He grabs Sam’s shoulders and slings him back against the car so hard the breath whooshes out of his lungs. Before Sam can gather wits or oxygen to do something Dean leans in and bites his nipple, hard, right through the flannel shirt. Then he grinds his palm against the front of Sam’s jeans. Sam loses track of his thought, brain whited out with highway static, and he arches up into the half painful pressure, groaning. Then Dean is yanking at the hair on either side of Sam’s face, angling him for a kiss, biting at his lips, fucking his tongue into his mouth, sucking his breath till Sam starts to get light-headed.

By the time Dean lets him go the traffic has faded to a distant hum, no competition for the thudding of his heart. Dean ghosts a hand down the side of his face, cups it round the back of his neck, and kisses him again. This time it’s slow and warm and gentle and full of promise. Heat spreads out from Sam’s belly, loosening his muscles like a hot bath, leaving him dazed, compliant and wanting. He fumbles to unbuckle his belt, unzips and drops his jeans, and pulls down his boxers. His cock curves up against his t-shirt, already damp. Dean clicks disapprovingly, unbuttons Sam’s overshirt and pulls it off, slinging it on the hood of the car, then drags the t-shirt over his head and tosses it after it. Sam shivers a bit, naked down to the jeans and boxers bunched around his ankles, the handle of the car door digging into the back of his thigh. Flannel and leather and denim brush against him as Dean crowds in, still fully clothed.

“Lean back, hands on the car, no touching yourself, no touching me,” Dean instructs, and Sam braces himself on cool metal and glass, tilting his head back and listening to the rush and whine of cars, the faint scuff of gravel as Dean gets on his knees. Dean looks intent and a bit annoyed. Sam blinks down at him owlishly, breath coming fast. Dean’s blunt, competent hands give an experimental tug, cup Sam’s balls. Sam jerks against the car on a caught breath, and Dean licks his lips, moves his head in.

For a moment he hovers, breathing over Sam, nothing touching Sam but the warm damp air. Then he says “Yeah, Sam,” softly, and Sam moans at the first touch of his tongue. He licks his way down Sam’s shaft, nibbles a path back up, sucks strongly on the head for a moment, then swallows him down, slick and smooth and impossibly deep, working with lips and tongue. Sam closes his eyes and goes with it, the soft, smacking sound of Dean’s mouth, the background hum of the highway, red behind his eyes, blotting out memory. Unconsciously he moves his hand and gropes for Dean’s head.

“Nuh uh uh, Sammy. Hands on the car.” Dean takes his mouth off Sam’s cock long enough to administer his directive. For a moment he sits back on his heels, hands resting flat against Sam’s skin, framing the heavy red curve of his cock. Then he leans in again, touches his tongue once, gently, to the base of the shaft. He runs his thumb over the slit and then circles it around the head, smearing spit and precome, before swallowing Sam down again, his cheeks hollowing with the suction. Sam’s hips buck up, his head bangs against the edge of the Impala’s roof, and he hears himself give a mewling whine as he thrusts helplessly into Dean’s mouth, his hands sweating and slipping on metal. Dean somehow manages to chuckle with Sam halfway down his throat, and the vibrations make Sam shudder. One of Dean’s hands is stroking Sam’s achingly tight balls, the other digging fingernails into the soft skin over his hipbone. Sam gives a wordless shout and comes in violent gouts, a vivid slideshow of dying gods and smiling devil playing out behind his eyes, intermixed with flashes of hurtful light.

He slumps, breath sobbing in his throat, and Dean swallows carefully, gauging him with a look half pleased with itself, half questioning. He stands up and leans casually next to Sam, like it’s just another rest stop breather. Sam gestures vaguely towards Dean’s crotch. “You want a turn?” Dean smiles lazily. “Sure you’re not too tired?” he asks, and Sam kind of is, actually, but fair is fair, so he says “Nah, it’s cool.” He gropes into Dean’s jeans, ready to give it his best, but Dean bats his hand away, reaches up to seize Sam’s chin, forcing Sam to look at him. Sam’s sure he’s a fine sight, racoon-eyed from sleeplessness and glazed from sex. “Nope, you’re still thinking,” Dean says, then “Hold on a sec.” He opens the passenger door and pokes around in the glove compartment, coming up with a bottle of vaseline. “Good enough,” he mutters. He seems to hesitate for a second, then reaches further in and turns the key in the ignition. The car vibrates against Sam’s bare back, and the music starts up again in mid-phrase. Dean grabs Sam’s arm and starts to tug him towards the front of the car and around to the driver’s side. Sam hangs back. “Dean!” he protests.

“What?” says Dean, “Pretty dull stretch of highway along here, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t it time we saved some innocent people from a boring commute?” And he pulls Sam along, stumbling and shuffling in the jeans that are still around his ankles, till he has him propped against the driver’s door. Sam is just too damn tired to fight it. Anyway, Dean’s in front of him, half-hiding him, sheltering him from the wind and grit of the highway, the headlights that search and finger along his body and then sweep past and away. All those passing faces behind windshields, not one of them Lucifer, not one of them seeking him out, what does it matter what they see? Shielded and exposed like this he feels strangely safe. “Gonna fuck me, Dean?” he asks, “Gonna fuck me right here on I-65?”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, Sam,” says Dean easily. He’s running his fingers lightly up and down Sam’s ribcage, over the hollow above his hip. Then down his neck, starting from the hair behind his ear, and along his collarbone. “We’ve got the whole night. Bright lights of the highway, Metallica, even angel porn if we want. Need me to hire you an idiot in a dinner jacket with a violin while we’re at it?” Sam shakes his head. “Dude, we’re having sex on the freeway,” he says, “We don’t have all night, we’ve got till someone calls the police.” “I’m sure we can work handcuffs into the equation,” says Dean, and his grin is as bright as his voice is dark. He plants a hand on either side of Sam’s head, moves his face towards his till their lips are almost touching.

“Here’s how it’s going to be, Sammy,” he says, breathing into Sam’s lips, his eyes locked on Sam’s. Sam can feel himself staring, mesmerized, like a deer in the headlights passing three feet away. “I’m going to finger you open, nice and slow. Gonna fuck you on my fingers. Gonna have you whining and writhing and begging, and you’re gonna get off. Gonna get off without me even touching your cock. And then when your legs are still shaking from that I’m gonna fuck you for real. People honking their horns at us, ten car pile-ups, highway police calling in reinforcements. Hell, fucking helicopters. I’m gonna fuck you up against the car, and you’re gonna get hard again, and you’re gonna come again. And then we’re going to zip up and get into the car and drive away, me at the wheel, you in shotgun, asleep. Got that?” Sam nods dumbly. It should be ridiculous, like some sexy villain’s monologue, but Dean’s so close Sam can smell him over the pervasive exhaust, he’s hard under his jeans where his hips are pressed against Sam, the ground is shaking faintly from the passing traffic, the lights are a dazzle of white and red in Sam’s eyes, and the blood is draining from his befuddled brain, starting to fill his still over-sensitive cock. “Good,” says Dean, and reaches for the vaseline.

  
Things start to come apart for Sam after that. He’s curled forward with his head on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean is holding him up, licking and biting at his neck, nuzzling behind his ear. Sam’s legs are spread wide around Dean’s. Then a single finger is circling his hole, teasing, pushing in the first joint and then withdrawing, and Sam gives a breathy whine and bites down on Dean’s jacket. Dean works the finger all the way in, draws it out, pushes back in again and crooks it to rub against the muscled wall. Sam tries to bear down and Dean laughs a little, withdrawing, and adds a second finger. He’s almost rocking Sam as he scissors him open with slow strokes, and Sam locks his arm around Dean’s neck, keeping him close, hiding his face against the vision of himself walking down some long hallway, away from Dean, towards Lucifer. He makes a choked noise, and Dean says “Shhhh,” and shifts his fingers inside, stroking over Sam’s prostate, sending a jolt of pleasure through him that has his hips jerking and his cock leaking. Dean continues working his sweet spot, adding a third finger, slow burn and slick rub and shocks spreading out like ripples on water. When Sam’s moaning at every shift of Dean’s fingers, working his hips in begging counter-circles, Dean pushes him gently back from his shoulder so he’s lolling against the car. Dean’s mouth moves first over his throat, then down to his nipples, sucking, then circling his tongue in time with the movements of his fingers. Someone honks at them, a long outraged sound, and for some reason that’s what sends Sam over the edge; he bears down, hard, as Dean’s fingers go still and Sam comes in long ropes over Dean’s shirt and his own stomach and chest. There are colored lights swirling in slow pinwheels behind Sam’s eyes. Fireworks, he thinks, distantly amused.

“I saw fireworks,” he croaks.

“Not surprised, Sammy,” says Dean. There’s a few minutes of silence, except for the traffic and Sam’s slowing breathing. Then Dean straightens, cracking his spine. He looks bouncy and energized, eyes glittering in the passing lights, cock straining at his jeans. “Ready for Act III?”

“God, Dean,” groans Sam. “Sure, go ahead, do whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to be conscious for it.”

“Not good enough, Sam,” says Dean, “you go to sleep _after_ we’re done. Right now you are going to man up and participate. I said you were going to come one more time, so you’re going to come one more time.”

“Deeannn,” says Sam, and this time he really is whining. “Turn around,” says Dean implacably.

“Thought you said there was no hurry, that we had all night for this,” grumbles Sam, but Dean’s having none of it. “Case you haven’t been keeping count, Einstein,” he says, “you’ve had two orgasms so far and I’ve had zero. You owe me. And I’m collecting in come.” Sam sighs and positions himself, hands against the car, ass raised towards Dean. At least he’s too tired and fucked out to care that a significant sampling of the population of the Midwest is getting an eyeful of his spread ass. There is no way, absolutely no way, he’s getting it up again tonight, but Dean can at least have his fuck. He hears Dean’s belt buckle clinking, then the zipper of his jeans. There’s a pause while Dean reaches for the vaseline again and preps himself. Then Dean bites down suddenly on the nape of Sam’s neck, wraps an arm around his chest, and slides in with one powerful shove. Sam gasps at the burn, for all he’s slick and loose from Dean’s fingering.

Dean’s in no hurry now that he’s in. His fingers play idly with Sam’s soft cock, and he rocks his hips gently rather than thrusting. His breath is steady still, warm in Sam’s ear. “You still thinking, Sammy?” he asks. “Yeah,” says Sam, because he is. Even the fireworks only banished Lucifer’s smiling face for a moment. Though there’s really no need. Two rings. Two more horsemen. They’re never going to steal a ring from Death. What would come after isn’t going to matter. They won’t get that far. Sam hopes, fiercely and secretly, for defeat.

Dean mouths over the bite he left on the back of Sam’s neck. “Bad habit, Sam,” he says. “Thinking’s a worse habit than roadside incest?” asks Sam, incredulous. “Mm-hm,” says Dean. “I’ll just have to make sure you don’t go down for both at once,” and he scrapes a fingernail lightly over the skin behind Sam’s balls, rocking forward into him. It’s a nice try. Sam’s cock gives a feeble twitch. And it’s a good feeling, the heat of Dean’s body all along his back, Dean’s breath at his neck, Dean filling him. It’s just not enough to refill the reservoir so soon. But Dean can’t be more eager for the thinking to stop than Sam. “Rougher,” he says, in the low growl that he knows pushes Dean’s buttons like nothing else, “I need it rougher,” and his cock twitches again at the hitch in Dean’s breath.

Dean gives his balls a tug, quick promisory pain, and drives into him with a blunt, hard thrust. Then his hand is sliding up Sam’s chest, coming to rest in a V against the bottom of his throat. Sam moans, a broken-off sound, anticipation. Dean’s thumb presses in, and Sam hisses in a breath, and yes, his cock is filling again. “The thinking stops here,” Dean whispers harshly against his ear. His tongue follows his words, darting along the whorls of Sam’s ear, probing the center. Then he blows over the evaporating wetness, nips sharply, and tightens his hand a little around Sam’s throat as Sam shivers and whimpers. Dean’s other hand comes up to cover Sam’s eyes, calloused fingers resting lightly on his eyelids, replacing the reflected arcs of headlights with warm darkness. The Impala is rocking on its tires in counterpoint to the punishing rhythm of Dean’s thrusts. Dean grunts with effort, the zipper of his jacket digging into Sam’s back, a faint enhancing line of pain. Lucifer’s face is finally fading behind Sam’s closed eyes. Sam leans into the hand at his windpipe, and the face dissolves in spangled darkness.

He draws one desperate, choked breath, then another. “Please,” he wheezes, “Dean, please,” and Dean bites down on his shoulder, slamming into him, twice, three times before coming with a strangled “Sam, fuck, Sam.” For a couple of moments he rests his weight on Sam’s back and keeps up the pressure on Sam’s throat, so that Sam swims on the edges of a deeper, pulsing darkness, blood singing in his ears.

Then Dean pulls out and the pressure is gone, the hand over Sam’s eyes is gone, and Dean is turning him around and leaning him back again against the car, pinning him gently with one hand on the center of his chest. Dean holds him there, chastely kissing his eyelids, his forehead, the sweaty hair at his temple, running his fingers lightly up and down Sam’s cock, barely touching. “Come on, Sam,” he says, with the familiar exasperation with which he chivvies them out of motel rooms on lazy mornings, and that’s all it takes, Sam’s spilling for the third time, not violently, he doesn’t have much left in him, but all of it, at last, enough. The dregs of last night, last week, the whole fucking year, even the cold, vague knowledge of what’s coming, drain away. He almost pitches forward onto Dean, too tired to stand, too tired to keep his eyes open or care that a steady, endlessly changing audience of whooshing cars is still watching as Dean, quietly efficient, uses Sam’s t-shirt to wipe him down, pulls up his boxers and jeans, zips and fastens, and finally wrestles Sam’s overshirt back on and buttons him into it like he did when Sam was three.

“Think you can get some beauty sleep now, princess?” Dean asks, and Sam can hear the anxiety under the carefully annoyed voice. Maybe for all his protective denial Dean, too, can guess how things are going to end. But Sam can’t talk about it, can’t talk at all, can’t even worry any more. For now it’s too far off, muffled by the dense, encroaching fog of sleep. He nods and lets Dean walk him around the car, settle him back in the passenger seat. He hears the trunk open and close before Dean climbs back behind the wheel, and the ratty blanket they stole from God knows what motel settles over his knees. Then something stiffer and heavier is wrapped around his shoulders, and he smells aftershave and leather. Dean’s jacket. First time in all of this he’s taken it off.

The last thing he sees is Dean’s face, red-lit by tail-lights, checking on him once more before easing the Impala back onto the highway. Then he closes his eyes and lets the redolent warmth of the jacket weight him down into sleep.

 


End file.
